It will hold your hand, help you with your bags when you finally walk out the door.

The flashbulb scenes from our life before are stained with its presence

haphazardly obscured—

A blurred profile

The edge of a shirtsleeve

One smirk, knowing I will later see it seeing me, seeing you, seeing us.

I am the first to smash through the silence,

Throw the photographic evidence at your

feet in a fit of fury

I see it laughing—

it wants you for itself and this is how it will

keep you

trap you

overtake you

replace me

In the morning

I uncover the spare key, unlock the backdoor

stop and watch him cut into a mango at our counter.

He cradles the half in his palm,

scores the exposed flesh vertically—

I want to tell him it’s risky,

ask him if he’s afraid the blade will break

through the fruit’s skin and puncture his own.

His eyes stay on the new perpendicular lines he carves.

My eyes go to the counter, my mug full and waiting.

We sit in silence broken apart by the

muffled squish of his thumb gouging cubes of yellow.

To the mango he mumbles

I’m glad you’re back.

I take honey from the cabinet and stir it into my tea,

summon an amber whirlpool.

To its darkness I nod,

the past singing behind my clenched teeth.

There’s nothing new I can say.

Nothing sacred in the mundane

pulling of meat from cheeks

sticky with juice.

Homonym

Morning.

1. (noun)

the light that breaks through the spaces where curtains do not close

stretching hands that find his, a sleepy high-five

gentle pushing out of the bed into the day

2. (adverb, informal)

mostly we sleep in, shielded by the softest dark fleece

he sometimes pulls over both of our heads, our glowing cave

close my eyes and pretend I am falling backwards into his promise of forever

3. (exclamation, informal)

Goodnight, I yawn into his ear

Good morning, he yawns from miles away

I count the minutes of remaining rituals

Mourning.

1. (noun)

if I stretch my fingers wide, place my palm on the globe

I imagine I can build a bridge, patch up the space

loose grip to close the wound, seal the cracks

2. (noun)

we have not opened the curtains in weeks

my eyes mirror his while we try to preserve our cave drawings

let little light and oxygen in

3. (verb)

glass shattered in the next room over

shards glittering across the hardwood, capturing the few beams of light

projecting a broken constellation across his face

Two Dreams from Vegas

How foolish to fall in love with the idea of forever;

but as I watched the roulette wheel spin into infinity,

numbers and colors blurring together into nothingness,

I considered the warmth of maybe

of possibility

of her hand in mine. To have and to hold tight

’til we part.

Outside he says to me

Let’s run through the fountain

but I can barely hear him over the rush of

bodies and conversations, layers of music

that surround us.

His imperative sings through cacophony,

I harmonize with my laughter.

The street turns our faces

technicolored and bejeweled.

Her laughter bounces off the lights over our heads,

rains down, the only melody I hear.

I ask her again,

take her hand

before we could change our minds.

Water hits his face first

and I am slipping, tumbling forward.

My hands find his and tug him with me:

we go down together

fast and slow, all at once

our clumsy grace

caught by marble, slick and cool.

Alex B. Wasalinko is a poet based in Pennsylvania. Before returning to her home state, she studied creative writing at the University of Strathclyde in Glasgow, Scotland. Her poetry appears in the University of Scranton’s undergrad journal, Esprit, and The Ekphrastic Review. Currently, Alex lives in Philadelphia where she teaches creative writing to children and teens. In her spare time, she visits museums, dabbles in art, and attends workshops at Drexel University’s Writers Room.